Felicity's Death
by DarkerThanEvanescence
Summary: What I image Felicity went through in the last moments of her life. Somewhat violent and painful as a warning.


**Rated T, one reference to sex (that makes two) and a bit of gore. I don't think Felicity died quickly, but rather painfully, cruelly, and re-experiencing her life a test subject.**

Felicity's Death

I sit on my windowsill, feeling the sun's touch warming my grey fur. It's a pleasant sensation, the heat. I'm sure that if I could see it, the sunrise would be beautiful.

It's been a while since I heard the last death cry. There are only five victims so far, all tomcats. The first victim is young, free, un-castrated, and went by the name of Atlas.

The second, Tomtom, was paranoid; always thinking the world was out to get him. Ironically, that assumption wasn't far off. He died with his throat slashed open.

The third happened to be an un-named brother, a loner that just wandered into the neighborhood. His scent and voice were foreign, an accent I couldn't identify.

Poor Sascha was the fourth, barely out of kitten-hood himself.

The most recent is good old Deep Purple. A familiar face, despite thinking every garden belonged to him, will be sorely missed.

Francis thinks they were murdered, but even so, the motive that caused their death is still likely to be sex. I've heard it before, the excited growls, the smell of a female in heat. It's really nothing new.

My ears prick as I hear the hinge in my skylight creak.

"Francis!" I call, turning over my shoulder, expecting to hear the sonorous timbre of his voice greet me, but it never comes. Strange, he told me he'd be back very soon.

"Francis?" I stand and face the dark expanse of nothingness that is my home. I don't hear a thing. Without my eyesight, my hearing has grown much more acute over the years, which is how I am able to hear the screams so clearly. But now, nothing, not the soft hush of paw pads on the rug, not the faint whisper of fur brushing against the leather furniture, not even the slow, rasping in-and-out of breath being drawn and released.

A sense of dread pulls at my heart, a feeling I am accustomed to, but haven't felt in a long while.

"Francis…" my voice is little more than a whisper. Whoever is here is not a friend.

A hiss escapes from my bared fangs and my claws slide from their sheathes. The fur along spine stands on end, and my tail thrashes and coils like a serpent with its head cut off.

From the shadows, another voice mingles with mine. An excited growl, persuasive, urgent, the same I hear when the killings occur.

"Who are you?" I gasp, my sightless eyes search for what I know I cannot see. Oh, if there was any time I wished my vision would return, it was this instant, so I could see this monstrous threat.

"I should've never let you live." The voice belongs to a tom, deep and throaty, old even. What does he mean?

I hear the thunder of paws on the ground and a bony shoulder throws me from my perch. I roll, feeling the soft weave of the rug on my whiskers. I crouch low, burying my claws into the fabric for stability, by equilibrium gone. I let out a furious hiss. _Stay away!_

I hear the heavy thud of body weight hitting hardwood. Paw steps get closer; the sour breath of my attacker stings my nose.

He screeches manically, claws puncture my flesh and I'm forced onto my side, helpless. He pins me down. I try to push him off, but I'm not strong enough, not nearly strong enough.

His fangs nuzzle my throat, searching for a pulsing artery. Jaws clench and tear, my body contorts in ways it shouldn't go. And the pain, it's more intense than anything I've felt before, gashing, shredding, and rending.

Wait.

This is vaguely familiar, this agony. Then the images come, the 'pictures in my mind.'

It's all blurry. There are many people around me, big, tall, and somehow bright. White, a blinding white emanates from them. They talk in unison and laugh, my head rings from their voices.

I'm scared.

I'm small.

I'm young.

I want my mother.

One leans closer and smiles. The smile is fake. His eyes terrify me. Cat-like, they shift, as if gauging my reaction. I don't trust them. Something glistens in his hands. He moves quickly, oh so very quickly. I feel the pain deep within my skull, but it fades very quickly.

I sleep.

This is no normal sleep. The darkness is darker than black, if that's even possible. I can't move. I can't wake up. I try. The voices start to filter through. They're angry at each other, blaming, screaming.

I feel like an eternity's passed while I was asleep. Something bad happens. I can't remember what. I don't want to remember what.

The darkness remains, but then there's no cold, biting metal table beneath me. I'm home. I'm safe from those evil men.

Then I feel the maw dig deeper in my neck. I know. I leave one nightmare and enter another. Why, why is this happening to me? What have I done?

I can't scream. My blood soaks through the fur of my chest. I know it has to be red. Is that what that color is called? It's the same color that's on the scalpel.

The pain in almost completely gone, only a dull ache, like a pulled muscle. I'm grateful for that. I don't want to die in anguish.

My attacker's smell lingers. He's still here. Why not leave me for the maggots? There's no hope anyway. I've given up. He's waiting for something. What?

Do I know him?

Yes.

The memory, he's there with the bright men.

They do this to him too.

I know his name.

If only I could tell Francis…

The one who must be sealed…

Claudandus…

**Depressing, right? Anything that isn't mentioned in the movie I read from the book. I didn't come up with anything new what-so-ever, for the record. **


End file.
